


Anthem of the Skies

by MaxwellEyre



Category: Original Work
Genre: Betrayal, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, England - Freeform, F/M, Falling In Love, Germany, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Rewriting History, World War 2, piloting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxwellEyre/pseuds/MaxwellEyre
Summary: It's the year 1942 and tensions between England and Germany are growing. Lincolnshire Airfield and Earnherdt Airfield have been attacking each other since 1941 and the results get more and more devastating. A pilot from a small town in Germany comes to terms with the horror his side of the war inflicts on the English and makes it his mission to find a way onto the "right side". Meanwhile, a pilot from England struggles with leading a squadron of his own-Eagle Squadron 153. During a mission in Germany, the two of them meet by unfortunate circumstances and seem to get along from the start. However, as with everything in war, moments of peace are followed by moments of chaos. The English pilot hates him, while the German wants nothing more than to get on his good side-maybe gaining something romantic from the encounters.Disclaimer: The airfields and squadrons in this book are made up. Eagle Squadrons were a thing but none of them had the number 153. All these characters and events are fictional. If there is any similarity to real events and/or people, it is purely by coincidence.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of this novel. As I stated in the summary, the airfields and squadrons are not real. Any relation to real events and/or characters is purely by coincidence. I hope you enjoy this!

**12 June 1942- Lincolnshire, England**

_Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds and done a hundred_ _things others have not._

            Jayden Pendleton recites this phrase over and over again as the Austin transport truck trundles along the rough dirt road, jostling both the driver and the passenger. Silver moonlight illuminates the ground before them, spilling through the truck’s windows. Jayden tugs lightly at the cuffs of his fur-lined bomber jacket; a nervous habit he’s never fully retired. After several years of training and instruction, the twenty-three-year-old pilot was made leader of Eagle Squadron 153, one of the famed groups of American volunteer pilots. Having come fresh from an English bombing crew, leading a bunch of Americans was the last thing Jayden wanted to do. He was overjoyed, nonetheless, at the prospect of leading an actual fighter squadron at his age.

            A few months earlier, while on leave from duty, Jayden had received a letter from Lincolnshire Airfield, one of the best in England. The Wing Commander, whose name had not been included, praised him for his accomplishments as a bomber and concluded by asking if he could show the same spirit as a fighter pilot. Jayden had eagerly accepted, leading him to where he was now. Jayden didn’t really like the life of a bomber and was happy for any change in scenery.

            During the beginning of the war, Jayden’s crew would drop their bombs on strictly military targets, such as supply lines and factories. As the war raged on, orders were changed from “end their military” to “bomb their cities.” Countless innocent lives were lost at his hands as a result and the memories plagued Jayden’s mind, eventually greeting him sinisterly in sleep.

            But, the nightmares weren’t the worst of it.

            Whenever Jayden was in town, whether he was in a pub or smoking on a street corner, he would earn glares from citizens that said, “How could you let them do this to us, you bastards?” Jayden wanted to scream; it wasn’t their fault the Germans are bombing the cities, after a promise not to. But, that would only make matters worse. _The citizens became pawns in our game._

“You alrigh’, lad?” the driver of the lorry asks, shaking Jayden from his thoughts. “You seem a little shaken up.” His voice is deep and accented, though from where Jayden didn’t know.

            “I’m alright,” Jayden responds earnestly.

            “The war gettin’ to you, yet?” the driver questions, looking at Jayden and grinning broadly.

            Jayden considers the question for a second. “I’ve never really put much thought into it. All the time in the air, you’d imagine I’d have more time to think.”

            The driver shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You pilots are crazy, fightin’ our war from the skies. Bein’ on the groun’ is enough to scare me from Hell to Hackney.”

            Jayden laughs weakly. “I understand. I got that a lot from my bombing crews. It takes a while to rewire their nerves, but once you do, it’s just a matter of keeping them out of the skies.”

            Jayden found it relaxing to talk to the driver. They spoke of his life during his bombing years of 1941, his sister back home and what brought him to Lincolnshire. The man was easy to talk to, another thing Jayden found comforting. They spoke throughout the forty-five-minute drive to the airfield, at which time Jayden’s anxiety began to spike once more. The driver pulls the Austin over a sizeable hill and into the base, slowing down considerably.

Lincolnshire was a decently sized airfield. Three visible hangars surrounded them, which, Jayden assumed, served as a storage for standard Hawker Hurricanes. Discernible in the dim orange light emitted from a building near the end of the runway, Jayden could see a few pristine Spitfires; a rarity in the RAF. Jayden leans forward in an attempt to take in more of his new home. The driver stops the truck rather abruptly, pitching the pilot forward and hitting his head on the dashboard.

“Well, guess this is where I drop you.” The man laughs at his own joke while Jayden exhales sharply, faking a smile and rubbing his forehead. He takes a rucksack from the floor by his feet and hops from the truck, waving his goodbye before slamming the door shut. Jayden turns to watch the truck’s taillights bounce along the road, vanishing behind the hill they had crested a few moments earlier. He shoulders the bag and makes his way towards the lit-up building on the other side of the airfield, the tall watchtower above it serving as a beacon. His breath leaves in tendrils of steam in the cold night and he shudders beneath the heavy coat. He pulls it tighter and around him. In the nearby hangars, Jayden can hear the muffled conversation and clatter of tools from the crewmen, laughter occasionally drifting through the air. Jayden smiles upon reaching the building, where he was certain there would be warmth and comfort; a welcome change from the cold, hard interior of the Austin.

            Inside, there was a modest desk, a few plush-looking chairs before a blazing fire, and American paintings, each one depicting someone--or something--different. Jayden was drawn towards one which showed two people locked in a dance. One was being held in the air by the other, their arms spread wide, like the wings of an eagle. The sun was behind them, trapped in setting, obscuring their features and identity. A post stood a few meters away from them, ropes hanging loosely from the wood where there should be horses. Jayden drops the rucksack from his shoulder, entranced by the work. There was something surreal about the painting; something that filled Jayden’s heart with longing. He reaches out and runs his fingers delicately along the picture’s smooth frame, careful not to ruin anything.

            “Beautiful work of art, isn’t it?” A gentle female voice startles Jayden, who knocks the painting slightly to the left. He hurriedly tries to straighten it before turning to look at who had spoken. Standing in the doorway to a small, dimly lit room was a, rather tall, woman--much taller than Jayden. She was wearing the uniform of a Commander, though a woman leading any branch of the military was unheard of.

            “It’s gorgeous,” Jayden responds, face flushing red. “I couldn’t help looking at it. I have a soft spot for Western artwork.”

            “I can say the same. That one’s called ‘Anthem of the Skies,’ by an American artist. I can’t remember the name, though most of the ones you see here are his.”

            Jayden had seen plenty of American artwork, though none of them held the same dramatic flair that this artist did. The colors blend together beautifully to create the sunset, shadows and silhouettes. It was perfect. “How did you get them?”

            “American art vendors tend to travel through here. Why they’d want to is beyond me. Gets them good money, I guess.

            Jayden takes one last look at the painting before remembering why he was here in the first place. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet the Wing Commander a few minutes ago. Is he in?”

            The woman smiles, exposing brilliant white teeth. “You’re speaking to ‘him,’ darling. I’m Marcy Green, Lincolnshire Wing Commander.

            “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Jayden rushes forward to take Green’s hand and shakes it firmly. “I thought-”

            “No need to go into detail. It was an honest mistake.” She smiles dismissively, releasing Jayden’s hand. “You must be our new Squadron Leader, Jayden Pendleton?”

            “Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to be here.” Green gestures for Jayden to follow her into the room behind her. Jayden does, waiting for Green to take her place behind the desk before sitting opposite her.

            “153 Squadron Leader Pendleton, also known as ‘Skywalker.’” Jayden bows his head. “A rather fitting name for someone with a flight record such as yours. Very impressive.” It was true; Jayden did have an impressive flight record, with over 2,000 hours of flight time and ten successful bombing runs. He was something of a legend among friends. However, being a bomber pilot, Jayden had very little recorded fighter training. However, that was something his advisors were willing to overlook.

            “Thank you. Though, you must know that I haven’t had much time in a fighter,” Jayden says, keeping his gaze level with Green’s.

            “What you’ve had will be enough. As long as you can keep your men under control and complete missions efficiently, everything should be fine.”

            “What do you mean, ‘under control?’” Jayden was used to leading a crew of obedient people, which is what he expected when he had taken the job. Hearing Green say otherwise frightened him. He was never good at controlling anything, save a bomber.

            “Your squadron as a history of being… how do I word this? Reckless, in the air. Just a week ago, one of them was shot down by his own squad mate. Luckily, both pilots made it out alive. The Hurricane, not quite as lucky.”

            Jayden clenches his jaw and sighs. “I’ll try my best, ma’am. I won’t disappoint you.”

            “I gave you an extra day of leave to spend in town. I figured you might want a day of rest before taking up the Americans.” Jayden had been looking forward to another day of quiet but, now that he was in Lincolnshire, he was eager to meet the wild Americans he was to tame.

            “If they’re still awake, I should like to meet with my squadron first, get to know them. I’ll take my leave at an inn tonight and be up here first thing tomorrow.”

            “Perfect. Your men should be in their briefing room. I’ll have your orderly show you where they are.” Jayden stands and bows his head respectfully.

            “Thank you, ma’am. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

            “I hope you’ll make 153 the best squadron in the skies, Skywalker.” Green smiles and Jayden grins at the nickname. It’s been a while since he’s heard it. He exits the room and makes for his rucksack against the wall near the painting. As he straightens up, he stares again at the work. There was something about the colors that reminded Jayden of his mother. She was a lover of Western art, just like her son. _She would love these…_ Jayden never knew his mother, but he could imagine the look on her face as she admired the large collection, beautiful brown eyes lighting up with excitement and wonder.

            Jayden is pulled from his thoughts by the creaking of a door and the sound of footsteps approaching him. He wheels around and is met by a young boy with fiery red hair, bright hazel eyes, soft facial features and full lips, which Jayden’s eyes were drawn to “You’re Squadron Leader Pendleton?” the boy asks shyly.

            “I-I am,” Jayden answers, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the boy in front of him. _He can’t be more than eighteen._

            The boy breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, excellent. I’m Acker, your orderly. Green said you might want to meet your squadron?”

            “Erm… yes, that would be nice,” Jayden had to admire Green’s efficiency; predicting he would want to meet his squadron and planning the night accordingly. “But, it might be better to have a tour of the airfield, that way I know what I’m dealing with.” Jayden’s voice sounds scratchy and he became self-conscious of his breath. Acker nods, leading Jayden out of the building. The cold air is like a smack in the face when Jayden steps into it, an icy hand seeming to reach into his chest and grip his lungs tightly, squeezing every warm breath from his body. It was hard to see Acker in the dark, despite the way his hair glowed like fire from the light behind them. Jayden looks anywhere but his orderly in an attempt to resist the urge to run his hands through the thick locks. Jayden had been dealing with urges like that since he joined the Royal Air Force. He doesn’t know what sparked it, or why now, but he’s had to put himself under immense discipline to keep from acting on those urges. The last time he’d had thoughts like that, Jayden had fasted for three days as a punishment.

            Acker leads Jayden behind the last hangar, where a small building stood, isolated from everything else, a feeble orange light shining through the window. Jayden can make out shadows through the glass, giving him a sense of security that this orderly knew what he was doing.

            “This is your briefing room. Your squadron will be expected here unless directed otherwise. You are free to join them or remain in your quarters,” Acker says, arms outstretched in a showcasing manner, drawing a feeble laugh from Jayden. Acker blushes, visible in the dim lights, drops his arms and hurriedly leads Jayden back onto the runway, back towards the hill. Acker points to the hangar next to them, walking at a brisk pace.

            “That’s hangar one, next to it is two. Across from two is three. Pretty straight-forward. As your briefing room is behind Hangar One, it will be yours. If your fighter needs maintenance for anything, that’s where you’ll take it.”

            “Have you any idea what we’ll be flying?” Jayden asks, struggling to keep up with his swift orderly.

            “We just recently got a new shipment of Spitfires. Green wanted the leaders of each squadron to judge which pilots they see fit to possess one. For now, until your decision is made, you’ll be flying Hurricanes.”

            The Hurricane wasn’t a bad plane. With the ability to reach speeds of up to 335 miles per hour, and capable of dropping bombs unexpectedly, it had proved to be a major English advantage However, with the production of the Spitfire MK V, it was time for the RAF to get an upgrade but, as long as the Hurricane got its pilot home safely, it was satisfactory. “I believe Green said you were to take your squadron up tomorrow and test their flight.”

            Acker’s voice draws Jayden back to himself. He clears his throat before saying, “I can do that. What’s this building?” He points to a long, rounded building to their right. No windows were lit and the light by the door was off.

            “Ah, that’s the Mess. Where you’ll be taking your meals, obviously. The building next to it is the barracks,” Acker responds, gesturing to a three-story building made of dark wood, with a sloped roof. “Squadron Leaders are on the second floor and their men are on the first. I can show you to your quarters, if you would like.”

            “That would be wonderful.” Acker grins excitedly and bounds towards the barracks, Jayden in his wake.

            “You might want to be quiet. The other squadrons might be asleep and they aren’t too fond of being woken up.”

            “When does everyone retire?”           

            “Typically, around ten. That gives you an hour yet.” Acker shoulders open the door to the barracks, revealing a cozy-looking room. In one corner, there were two desks lining the wall, radios and a few blank pieces of paper scattered here and there. Across from the desks were two cushioned couches, each with a blanket draped over its back. Oil lamps light the room, providing the space with a rustic, calming feeling. Jayden can’t imagine anywhere more comfortable than here. He notices a few pillows and blankets strewn across the floor, like the ones at his old airfield.

            “Do people sleep here?” _Now, that’s a stupid question._ Jayden looks at Acker, awaiting a response.

            However stupid it may it sounded, Acker didn’t seem to notice. “They do. Typically, after the loss of a squad mate. All of the squadrons will join here, listen to the radios and enjoy each other’s company. I guess Green thought it would boost morale.”

            “Have there been any losses lately?” Jayden gestures to the pillows on the floor. Acker chews the inside of his cheek. “You don’t need to answer. It was just a question.”

            “Why don’t I take you to your room?” Jayden nods and motions for him to lead the way. Acker takes him up a flight of stairs to the first floor, which was lined with doors. Acker moves wordlessly through the corridor, only speaking when they reach another staircase. “Each room has five bunks, each with two beds. Due to shortages of aircraft, your squadron will have nine people and eight planes, therefore, only needing one room.” He points to the door at the very end of the hallway, then mounts the staircase.

            “So, that means one person must always be grounded?” Jayden asks, lowering his voice as they reach the second-floor landing.

            “Pretty much,” Acker responds. “Yours is the room at the end. If you want, while you’re gone, I can take your bag and get everything ready for you.”

            “I’m taking the night in Lincolnshire, but if you would have nothing else to show me, then I’ll send you on your way,” Jayden says, readjusting the bad on his shoulder.

            “Of course, sir. Have a safe night. We all look forward to working with you.” Jayden smiles and watches Acker’s form retreat down the stairs, waiting for a few moments before follows, trying to be as quiet as possible. He skips the last couple of steps, shoulders open the barrack’s door and steps into the cold night air. He jogs across the runway, past the hangars and to the briefing room behind Hangar One. Running provided his body with a little warmth, but it wasn’t enough to completely chase away the chill.

            To his relief, the briefing room light was still on. Jayden takes several moments to catch his breath, each intake of air colder than the last. Once he finds it easier to breathe, Jayden straightens his uniform, recites the phrase and slowly opens the door to the briefing room. As he enters the building, all conversations cease and the world seems to still, all eyes turning to the newcomer. Jayden lets his eyes wander over the ensemble, familiarizing himself with their faces and taking in every detail of them: the way their eyes gleam with exhilaration, their messy and varying shades of hair, their posture. Jayden steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him.

            Jayden clears his throat and tries to assume an air of authority and confidence. “Good evening, Squadron 153. My name is Jayden ‘Skywalker’ Pendleton, and I’m reporting as your new S/L.” Jayden winces. The words sounded much better in his head when he repeated them over and over on the way to Lincolnshire. The room remained quiet, a bored expression on each man’s face.

            Eventually, someone speaks up. “Well, are we going to welcome him?” The owner of the voice stands up--a tall man with dark hair and a sharp face. He makes his way to the front of the room, saluting lazily before holding out his hand. “I’m Flight Lieutenant Jackson Briggs. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Jayden takes Jackson’s hand, shaking it firmly and briefly.

            “Flight Lieutenant? I wasn’t aware anyone was above the rank of Pilot Officer.” Jayden keeps his voice steady, which is quite a feat, considering the man next to him was rather close.

            “Now, that hurts.” Another man stands up, this one with hair so white it bordered silver. He had a face that gave him a childish look, one that didn’t belong in the war. He stops in front of Jayden, saluting him better than Briggs had, but not as good as Jayden would have liked. “Flight Lieutenant Andrew Davis. Wonderful to finally meet you.” Davis drops his hand and wheels around, pointing to different people around the room and providing Jayden with their name and rank.

            “Why don’t you sit down,” Jackson says. “No doubt you’ve been on your feet all day.” Jayden accepts the chair he’s offered, falling onto it with a sigh of relief. He takes another once over of the men before him, trying as best as he could to put names to faces.

            Jayden takes a deep, calming breath before speaking. “Two out of nine of you are Flight Lieutenants, which is good. Tomorrow, as per arranged with Green, I’ll take each of you up individually to test your abilities and see what I can do from there. From what I’ve just witnessed, we have a lot to work on when it comes to respecting your superiors. Briggs, I have a few questions for you.” Jayden has already taken a liking to the dark-haired pilot, despite his lack of respect and wanted to see how he would handle reports, if he were to make him his second. With the lack of fighters, Jayden would need to take on a second; that way, if he needed to stay on the ground, while the others flew operations, he knew someone he could trust was in the air in his stead.

            “Anything, sir,” Jackson was slouched in a chair in front and a little to the left of Jayden, his arms crossed over his chest and an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

            “Have you guys been put in rotations? Bomber escort, air patrol, anything?”

            “We are not, sir,” Jackson responds, shaking his head. “Our previous leader was trying to get us in before he left. We go up for operations when we’re needed, but we don’t normally fly bomber escort or air patrol.” Jayden knew a lot about the history of Eagle Squadron 153. They’ve been around since 1918, made up of Americans banned from fighting for their country. His group has been around since late ‘41 and, seven months later, they still weren’t in rotations. Jayden made a mental note to check their flight records before he left tonight.

            “Do you know why you weren’t put in?”

            “I don’t. I guess Green wants us to ‘prove ourselves’ or something.” Jayden simply nods.

            The squadron spoke to Jayden for the next forty-five minutes, questioning him about his life in England, military history and personal life. Several of the questions Jayden didn’t answer, saving those stories for when he knew these people better. He was in the middle of a story about a bombing run when a knock on the door silenced him. He looks over his shoulder to see Acker standing in the doorway, a look of joy unmistakable on the young man’s face.

            “S/L Pendleton. Green gave me orders to take you into town tonight. IS there anything needed to be done before we go?”

            Jayden takes a look at his men before answering, deciding it wouldn’t hurt them. “Could you get me Eagle Squadron 153s records from the Commander? It would do a lot of good to read up on these people.” Jayden winks, drawing light chuckles from the crowd. Acker nods and retreats. “I look forward to flying with you all.” Jayden stands and exits the building, choosing to meet Acker in front of the Wing Commander’s building.

            “That bunch sure are crazy, aren’t they?” Acker asks as he bounds through the door, handing Jayden an armload of files. He buckles beneath their weight. He tucks some of them under his arm and falls into step beside Acker.

            “Yes, they are. Though, I’m anxious to see how they fly, disorderly though they may be.” Jayden chews the inside of his cheek as the come up on another lorry, this one of a different make.

            “I’ve seen them fly once or twice. Briggs has a flair for the dramatic, that much is clear.” Jayden nods absently. He pulls himself into the passenger’s seat of the truck, resting the files on his lap. Acker joins him in the driver’s seat, eagerly starting the engine. A few moments later, he’s tearing away from the airfield. Jayden grips the bar above his head to stop himself from flying forward. Jayden laughs at Acker’s recklessness, like driving is a rare occurrence for him. It’s only when they reach the main road that he bothers to let up on the gas.

            “You don’t drive this thing that much, do you?” Jayden asks, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

            “Not really, sir. Only when newcomers, like you, decide to spend the night in town.”

            “That explains why you’re so reckless.” Jayden looks over at Acer, catching his wide smile and eyes that glowed in the moonlight. They were going to get along very well.

            “What brought you to England?” Acker asks, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over them. Jayden furrowed his brow.

            “What do you mean? I’ve always been here.”

            “Not for very long. I can tell. You still have the trace of an American accent, but you’re a little too civilized to be _fresh_ from America. You’ve been here… ten years, at least.” Acker glances over at Jayden and, seeing his confused expression, adds, “I’ve a friend who was just like you. Trust me, it’s easy to pick up on people.” Jayden is amazed at how easily Acker was able to catch onto his American roots. Most people couldn’t care less.

            “Well, you got me. I moved to England with my father and sister when I was five, and we’ve been here ever since. Guess I just haven’t adapted as much as they have.” Acker laughs and looks at Jayden, grinning broadly. “What about you? Where’d you come from?”

            “I came from Ireland Father joined the war, mother and I followed. When I was old enough, I was commissioned as an orderly. I’ve been through three Squadron Leaders, though none were like you. We just didn’t… connect, like you and I.” Jayden is flattered by Acker’s opinion of him but is cautious of where that simple emotion might lead.

            “Have you considered joining the RAF?” Jayden asks, hurriedly changing topics. From what he’s seen of Acker, the kid has a knack for controlling vehicles, even if it were a ground variant. He could easily grasp the controls of a fighter and control the skies.

            “I haven’t really thought about it,” Acker responds, shaking his head. “My mother wouldn’t approve of me becoming the very thing she despises. Says it would give the family a bad name.”

            “Why wouldn’t she want you to be an airman? It’s one of man’s greatest honors.”

            “That’s what I’ve tried telling her. She always counters with ‘those Air Force bastards didn’t stop the bombings or the raids. They let it happen’.” Jayden knows how it feels to be criticized by people. It wasn’t their fault, really. It was the politicians. The RAF pilots were just following orders. During his bombing days, when Jayden was ordered to start bombing German cities, he would fall asleep to thoughts of retirement and reuniting with his father and sister. But he knew, deep within his heart, he could never give up the beauty of a sunset flight or the freedom being in the cockpit of a fighter gave you. It’s something everyone should be able to experience, no matter what.

            “How old are you, anyway?” Jayden asks, breaking the silence that had fallen over the cab. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

            “I applied with the age of twenty-one, sir.”

            “But that’s not your real age, is it?”

            Acker chuckles. “No, sir. I turned eighteen just last month. Can you… keep that between us?”

            “Call me Jayden.” He normally wasn’t one for informalities, but Acker can be his only exception. Not that Acker would have cared.

            “I like that name.” Jayden looks at his orderly, the dark red dusting of his cheeks visible in the lights of the city. “I always told my mum that, if I had a son, that would be his name.”

            “Where did you get your name from? I’ve never heard anything like it.”

            “It means ‘field.’ I have no idea why mother named me after a piece of land, but it’s different. Nobody really cares about a name’s meaning in the first place, so why should I? This is your stop.” Acker says the last words sadly.

            Acker pulls up alongside a broad, two-story building with almost every window illuminated. Jayden looks at Acker one last time before getting out and saying, “I think we’ll get along just fine.” He bids his orderly goodnight and a safe trip back to the airfield. He slams the truck door shut, tucks the files safely under his arm and shove his hands in his pockets, attempting to ward them against the chill night air. He approaches the front doors of the inn, which were made of dark oak wood. He pulls them open, reveling in the warmth. He cups his hands together and blows against them, trying to coax feeling back into them. He glances around the compact room in search of someone who could get him a room. Seeing nobody, he takes a seat in one of the chairs by the fire, opening the first file he grabs from the pile he made on the floor beside him.

            It belonged to Alonso Aquino, a twenty-one-year-old Spanish American Pilot Officer, who never graduated from the Academy. He had a total of eighty-three hours of flight time and showed promising results in instrument flying. The summary, left by the previous S/L, was short and said all good things, aside from Alonso’s tendency to wander from his wingman and leave him unguarded.

            Jayden was just beginning to read the second flight record--which happened to be Jackson’s--when a rough voice startled him. He hurriedly stands and takes the files from the floor and turns around to see who had spoken. Behind the front counter was a man with dark, sunken eyes and long, greying hair. He was leaning with his elbows on the desk, smoking a cigar.

            “Can I help you?” the man asks again, voice a little softer this time. “Or are you just going to stand there and look at me?”

            “I’m sorry. I just… I need a room, if you have any to spare.” It came out more a question than a statement.

            “How long you staying for?” he asks, stooping to take a key from a compartment beneath the desk.

            “Just tonight. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” Jayden says, approaching the front desk and accepting the key the clerk slides to him. Jayden reaches into his pocket for money but is stopped by the man.

            “I know a genuine military man when I see one. Don’t worry about payment. You’re already doing enough.” Jayden is tempted to force the currency into his hand, but only nods in appreciation. “Top floor, third room on the left.” Jayden responds with a smile before turning and making towards a nearby staircase. He readjusts the folders in his arms before beginning the slow ascent to the top floor by the time he reaches the last flight, his legs are burning. He wasn’t accustomed to climbing stairs, as the airfields on the outskirts of London hardly had any.

            The room is a bit too large for Jayden’s liking, with a wide mattress, a red oak desk and a furnace in the corner of the room. A fleece blanket covered the bed, two fluffed pillows resting against the headboard. A few dim lamps illuminated the room, one of which stood proudly on the red desk, which contained standard stationary and a white feather quill. Jayden steps cautiously into the room, shutting the door behind him and making for the desk. He sets the files on the beautifully polished wood, gleaming in the light of the lamps. Jayden collapses in the chair with a sigh, running his hands through his blonde hair before reaching for the top file.

                                               NAME: JACKSON BRIGGS

                                                                AGE: TWENTY-TWO

                                                                DATE OF BIRTH: 14 JULY 1920

                                                                TOTAL FLIGHT TIME: 237 HOURS

            Jayden reads through his performance records, which show exceptional strength in combat, maneuverability and control. He didn’t seem to be as reckless as Jayden was told; instead, he seemed to be focused and tame. He stuck with his wingman, unlike Alonso, but his instrument flying wasn’t as good. Jayden made a note to test him, have him log more hours in the Link and prove just how tame he was. He closed the folder, set it aside and grabs the next one and began to read.

            This one belonged to Andrew Davis, the blond-haired Flight Lieutenant. Jayden could definitely see why Davis was made and F/L. His flight time was unbelievable, instrument tests off the charts and he stuck with his formation. Jayden made another side note to test his maneuverability tomorrow and talk to him about being a second, if he’s ever been in that position before.

            By the time Jayden gets through all of the records his vision is blurred. He pulls back the sleeve of his jacket, exposing a clean-faced watch on his left wrist. _1:00 a.m._ He stifles a yawn as he glances at the piles of folders, separated by strength in certain skills. Each pilot had strength in combat, which is an advantage due to the restraints on ammunition. Even if they needed to work with their guns, they would need to do so during dogfights, as it would waste ammo otherwise. Jayden crosses his arms on the desk and rests his head in the space between them, falling asleep almost instantly.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is now up. It took forever and I'm sorry about that but I had to do a bit of editing on it. Hopefully it's as good as I want it to be! Feel free to leave feedback, if you'd like.

**13 JUNE 1942-LINCOLNSHIRE AIRFIELD   (One day later)**

                Jayden makes his way across the tarmac to his briefing room, a lit cigarette between his teeth. He wasn’t one to smoke, but he could make an exception for today. This is his first day with his squadron, his first chance to see if the rumors about the Americans were true. The morning air was chilly, accompanied by a slight whisper of a breeze, which seemed to tear through every stitch of fabric Jayden had on. He takes a long drag from the cigarette, hoping to bring a little warmth to his freezing body.

            By the time he reaches the briefing room he wasn’t yet half done with his smoke. He leans against the wooden frame of the building, gazing up at the cloud-filled sky. Not very good weather for a test flight, but it would allow him to observe instrument flying, should the cloud-cover get worse. Jayden takes a long drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before releasing it. The air is humid for this time of the day, curling Jayden’s normally straight hair and giving the atmosphere a little extra pressure. The room behind him was filled with the sound of tired voices, muffled by the wall between them. Jayden had Acker bring his squadron to the room, the first thing he did when he returned to the airfield.

            The comfortable, muffled silence was disturbed when the briefing room door opened, making the voices clear. Jayden glances over his shoulder to see who had left the building.

            “Morning, sir,” Jackson says, standing beside his superior He pulls a crushed box of cigarettes from his coat pocket and taps one into his palm. Jayden offers him the lit end of his own, which Jackson gladly accepts. He raises the lit cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply and releasing the smoke with a contented sigh.

            “Good morning, Briggs,” Jayden responds, taking another long drag and releasing it as he spoke. “Wonderful day for a test flight, wouldn’t you agree?”

            Jackson laughs, turning his gaze towards the sky. “I couldn’t agree more.” He falls silent for a few moments before speaking again. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in the air, especially like this. This,” Jackson gestures to the clouds. “Won’t clear up.”

            “You never know,” Jayden says, finishing off the last of the cigarette and dropping it to the ground, putting it out with the toe of his boot. “Why haven’t you been flying?”

            Jackson shrugs. “Been grounded.” At Jayden’s confused expression, he adds, “Wing Command didn’t tell you? Well, last week, during an escort, Charlie filled my fuselage with bullets. The plane took some nasty damage and I got equally as nasty burns, which is why I’ve been grounded.” Jackson draws from the cigarette before speaking. “It’s horrible not being able to fly for a week. It doesn’t leave one with much to do except the Link.”

            “I did hear about someone getting shot down, but I wasn’t told who.”

            “Well, now you know,” Jackson says aggressively, crossing his arms and glaring at the horizon.

            “Is Charlie still down?” Jayden asks, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over them.

            Jackson nods. “If you can make a deal with Green, I think she’ll allow him to fly for today.”

            “I’ll remember that.” Jackson drops the remnants of his cigarette and turns back to the building, leaving Jayden in the relatively silent morning. He takes one last look up at the sky, just as a Spitfire is taking flight, then pushes away from the wall and enters the briefing room. Everyone falls silent as he crosses the threshold, making him feel awkward and scrutinized. He clears his throat and clasps his hands in front of him.

            “Alright, I’m not very good with speeches, so I’m going to keep this as brief as possible. Everyone is free to do whatever they want until two o'clock this afternoon, at which time I would like everyone to report back here. I spoke with Green and she gave us the reign of the skies for as long as we need. The other squadrons shouldn’t be running operations at that time. If cloud cover doesn’t disperse, then I’ll be testing your ability to fly by instruments. Each of you will go up with me, one at a time and, if you’re up to it, we’ll go through some group flights. If anyone has any questions, now would be a good time to ask”

            A feeble voice, belonging to Chad McCoy, calls out, “is this related to who gets the Spitfires? I overheard another squadron talking about it.” Jayden smiles as McCoy’s face turns a bright shade of red.

            “That is information I cannot give away freely. You’ll have to earn it.” The ensemble groans, slouching back in their chairs. “I will be in my quarters. Acker will remain here. If I am needed, send him to me.” His men salute him lazily. Jayden wheels around and exits the building. The morning chill had been chased away in the brief time he’s been inside, replaced by the beginning of midmorning warmth. Jayden stops for a moment breathing in the scent of oil and fuel, an aroma he’s grown to love almost as much as the skies.

            Remembering what Jackson had said about Charlie, Jayden turns towards the Wing Commander’s building. He was unsure about what he would do if Green denied Charlie the ability to fly with him. He would be looking forward to the addition of a new leader. It would be his second chance, the ability to prove himself. Jayden knew what that was like; he had been in that position before.

            When Jayden enters the building, instead of it being empty, there is a woman seated behind the light oak desk, a headset over her ears. She has dark brown hair, which was pulled back in an elegant plait, and fair skin. She presses two fingers against the headset, seemingly not noticing Jayden’s presence. She keeps her fingers on the headset for a few seconds, listening intently, before sighing and removing the headphones, quickly jotting something down. Jayden gazes at her confusedly. He feels like he knows her, her soft expression sparking something within him.

            “Can I help you?” she asks, voice more demanding than he expected. She gazes at him intently, waiting for his answer.

            Jayden clears his throat. “I’m here to speak with Green. Is she in?”

            “She is. I’ll let her know.” She stands and leaves the main room, leaving Jayden feeling rather awkward. _I know her! I do, I can feel it!_ He just can’t place it. Is it… no, it can’t be. She would have told him. The operator steps out of the Commander’s office, bowing her head respectfully. “She’s ready when you are.”

            Jayden walks past her, thankful for the distraction conversation will bring. “Good morning, ma’am.”

            “Pendleton.” Green nods her head. “What can I do for you?”

            Jayden stands between the two chairs positioned in front of her desk, hands clasped behind his back. “I have a request, for one of my pilots.”

            “One Charlie Byrn?” Green asks, holding her head high and serious. “I presume you’ve been told of his incident?”

            “I… have been informed,” Jayden admits. “However, I think if I return him to basic gun safety and he’s given permission to fly, it would prove very beneficial.”

            “What he did was a very serious offense. He could have been out of the squadron, but your predecessor pleaded with me to keep him.”

            Jayden tilts his head a little to the left. “I can see why, Commander. His records are phenomenal. It makes me wonder why I was made an S/L instead of him.”

            “You simply have more experience.” Green’s voice was feeble and full of irritation--a sign that Jayden should leave her be.

            “I’ll let you think it over. I’ll be taking my squadron up at two, as you know.” Jayden turns to leave but stops when Green speaks.

            “I’ll let him fly with you today, but until I see that he is able to keep his comrades safe, he is to remain grounded.” Jayden nods his thanks before entering the main lobby. He’s disappointed yes, but there’s nothing else he can do to change her mind. He nods to the operator before leaving.

            He steps into the morning air, shoving his hands in his pockets and allowing his posture to slacken. Sunlight breaks through a small space in the clouds, beating down on Jayden’s back. It’s definitely a welcome change from the rainy English weather of the past three weeks. Even a sliver of sunlight was alright with Jayden; it would brighten his mood and make things a bit easier on his squadron. Flying against the clouds would be useful, but Jayden understood how stressful flying by instruments could be.

            As he comes level with the door to the barracks he stops, reaching into his coat’s interior pocket for the silver case of cigarettes he always kept there. It wasn’t like him to smoke this much. He checks his watch, which reads 11:45. He didn’t have to be in the mess for another forty-five minutes; plenty of time to relieve himself of a little stress.         

            Jayden delicately pulls a cigarette from the case, holding it between his teeth while he fishes for a lighter. Once he’s found one, he lights the end of the cigarette and takes a long, refreshing drag before putting the case and lighter back in his pocket. He gazes up at the sky--promising clear weather--and remembers the first time his father had taken him flying. He was barely ten years old, then, eager to learn the ways of people like his father, who had been a pilot in the War to End All Wars. When the war ended and his father had reunited with his wife, they had celebrated rather joyously. A couple of months later, they learned they were expecting a child; and on September 30, 1919, Jayden and his twin sister, Gabrielle, were born.

They never knew their mother.

 Jayden immediately took to his father and, as soon as he was old enough to talk coherently, he was begging his father to share stories about his piloting days. Gabrielle didn’t take any interest in the aerial side of the war, but her wants were satisfied, too: the boring art of politics.

When the twins were five years old, the three of them moved to England to escape the sadness America held. Jayden’s mother had died during childbirth, which he hadn’t known until a few years ago. Their father didn’t get into alcohol, as was common among a lot of people who went through trauma. He would only drink on special occasions, such as Gabrielle’s wedding a few weeks ago. Jayden had attended the ceremony on his leave, after which he was asked to transfer to Lincolnshire. His father was proud of him, saying he was bringing good to the family name.

Jayden had earned the nickname “Skywalker” from his father, who was called the same thing during the first World War. They were both, undoubtedly, wonderful pilots and the name fit them both. Jayden had stuck with it, not asking to be called something different. He decided it was an honor.

Jayden takes one last pull from his cigarette and drops the remaining stub, putting it out with his heel. He releases his mouthful of smoke and enters the barracks, thankful for the warmth. The sun might have been out, but that doesn’t stop the cold winds blowing inland from the sea. A few members of another squadron are sprawled out on the couches, their hands on their chest or behind their head. Jayden acknowledges them with a nod, hurriedly leaving them in favor of his room’s comfort. He’s never actually seen the space before and was quite surprised to see the room was fitted with a mattress that looked as if it could hold two people, a footlocker, a desk and a lamp. At the foot of his bed lie his rucksack, looking as if everything were still intact Jayden doesn’t hesitate in unpacking, placing the clothes he had in the footlocker, a Bible and _The Sound and the Fury_ on the desk. From the last pocket, he pulls out a box, black and lined with silver. Within, there is a delicate falcon’s feather quill, which a gold ribbon wrapped around it, resting on a bundle of paper. He sets the box, as well as a bottle of ink, on the desk beside the books.

To the right of the bed is a window; not large, but not small, either. The curtains are drawn, yet thin slivers of sunlight pass through, creating smooth rays on the hardwood flooring. Jayden takes one last look around his new accommodations before lying faceup on the bed, boots still on. Resting his hands on his chest, he falls asleep.

            ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Smoke fills the cockpit, accompanied by a sweltering heat. Jayden pulls the Spitfire control yoke towards him in a desperate attempt to keep the plane from crashing in a fiery blaze. At barely above one hundred-fifty meters, with a near unresponsive plane, it was an all too real possibility.

“This is S/L Pendleton! Squadron 153, do you copy?” Jayden begins to panic when all his transmission gives is static. He pulls harder on the yoke, trying to get more air beneath his wings to keep himself airborne. _This is when it would be helpful to have a crew._ Jayden squints through the smoke, trying to get an idea of where he is. However, instead of seeing the lush greenery of the English countryside, he sees the olive-green fuselage of an enemy fighter. Jayden removes a white-knuckled hand from the stick and clutches the Rosary in his breast pocket, muttering a prayer to anyone that would listen. Beside him is an enemy pilot with the power to cut him down and claim a victory. He covers his mouth with an oxygen mask, thankful for the clean air it provided.

Jayden returns his attention to the front windshield, trying to angle his plane. He glances at the fighter beside him, which is parallel to Jayden; nose down, tail up. Through the soot-lined glass, he can see the pilot gesturing for him to keep his nose up. Jayden gives the pilot a troubled look, unsure whether to listen or land. If Jayden was able to remain airborne, the enemy had the opportunity to fall back and fire, reducing the time Jayden had in this aerial time bomb. _What choice do I have? It’s either listen and risk death, or land and risk exposure._ Jayden grits his teeth, pulling up and restarting the struggle of staying in the air, the enemy pilot beside him the entire time.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of a bell is what rouses Jayden. His eyes shoot open and he bolts upright, bangs plastered to his forehead from sweat. HIs chest heaves with labored breaths, as if that dream had been a reality. Jayden threads his fingers through his hair and pats himself down, making sure everything was still intact. He slows his breathing to deep, relaxing inhalations and throws his legs over the side of the mattress, willing himself to calm down. He’s had this dream for as long as he can remember, but it hasn’t been this vivid. He’s never brought it up to anyone, no matter how much they want to help. Jayden’s not one to let people in.

Jayden hears the creaking of floorboards before the knock. He stands up and stretches his arms above his head. “Yes, Acker?” _Who else could it be?_

“Sir, you’re wanted in the Mess. The other S/Ls want a chance to meet you, see who they’re dealing with.”

“Thanks, Acker. I’ll be there in a moment. Be on your way.” Jayden waits for the orderly to retreat downstairs before leaving, himself. HIs stomach was still churning from the lingering scent of smoke, or it might be anxiety. In a little under two hours, he would be performing his first flight with a new squadron, his first time flying a fighter in _two years._ He’s had training, but it was limited to basic controls and flight mechanics, such as how to read instruments and control speed. He had learned that bombers weren’t that much different from fighters, aside from a bomber being heavier and slower and a bit more sensitive to human touch. However, Jayden’s motto was, “If I can control a B-17, I can control a Spitfire.”

The cold air was a relief against Jayden’s skin, still pumping with the heat of adrenaline. A few people, mainly ground crewman, were making their way to the Mess. The scent of engine lube and oil fills the breeze, accompanied by the faint roar of a Hurricane. The clouds have been completely chased away, the newly exposed sunlight glinting off the smooth grass runway

Beside Hangar Three is a moderate blast pen, where aircraft are kept after operations and practice runs. Jayden had noticed this when he first entered the airfield but hadn’t taken the time to admire the beauty of it. Around the wings and tails are piles of sandbags and walls of wood protect the fighters like horses. That’s what they’ve always been to Jayden; while Gabrielle wanted a four-legged horse, Jayden wanted a three-wheeled Pegasus. Now, he had eight of them.

The sound of muffled vices draws Jayden from his thoughts. He takes a deep breath before pushing open the door to the Mess, where the sound is a bit louder. The English squadrons are talking in hushed voices, keeping close together, while the Americans seem to be in a competition to see who could talk the loudest. Jayden glances around the hall, stopping on a table occupied by only two people. The pilot facing Jayden notices him and beckons for the new arrival to join them. Jayden makes his way through the aisle of tables and takes his place to the left of the man who had seen him, folding his hands in his lap and keeping his back rigid.

“Relax, kid,” the pilot across from Jayden says. “There’s no need for that.” He relaxes a little. The officer beside him offers a tray of food, which Jayden waves off. The three of them sit in silence, each feeling rather awkward until someone speaks.

“I’m Benjamin Stone, leader of Squadron 72.” The man opposite Jayden--Benjamin Stone--extends his hand in greeting, which Jayden shakes firmly.

“Jayden Pendleton, leader of Eagle Squadron 153.” The man beside Jayden chuckles softly.

“That bunch of Americans yours, then?” Jayden nods firmly. “I couldn’t stand working with them. Too loud.”

Jayden responds, confidently, “I’ll have to agree with you there. Though, I’m excited to see them fly. Apparently, Briggs has a ‘flare for the dramatic’.” Jayden accepts a cup of water that was handed to him, nursing it between his hands.

The man next to Jayden offers him his hand. “I’m Wesley Peters, the proud leader of Squadron 363. Best bunch of pilots out there.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Jayden says, taking a small, tentative sip of water. “However, I’m going to have to say, I can make my men the greatest pilots in the skies. You’d better watch out.” The two men laugh, drawing a faint chuckle from Jayden.

“Cocky one, aren’t you? Well, maybe I’ll have to supervise your practice runs, see if you really mean it.” Peters smirks at Jayden, making him blush uncomfortably.

“Two o’clock this afternoon. I’m taking my pilots through some maneuvers. Feel free to see for yourself,” Jayden says with surprising confidence.

Stone is still laughing to himself. “You’d better look out for this one, Peters. He means business.”

“I’ll bet he does.” Peter watches Jayden for a few seconds, a strange glow in his eyes that turn them from a gentle brown to a fiery orange. Jayden can’t help but feel like a mouse trapped by a feral cat.

Sensing Jayden’s discomfort, Stone changes the topic. “So, what draws you here, Pendleton?”

Jayden finishes the last of his water before answering. “I got an invitation a few weeks ago to lead a squadron. It was a big deal for me, so I took it. My sister was reluctant to let me go. She watched over me more than my father did. I just hope I made the right decision. I couldn’t stand not being able to see her, one last time.”

“When did you last see her?” Peters asks, his tone less condescending.

“In a white dress, on my father’s arm.” Stone and Peters laugh, making Jayden blush harder than he already was.

“You went to her wedding, then left?” Stone asks. Jayden nods. “That must have been rather difficult, seeing her big day and not sticking ‘round to celebrate. I’ve got a sister back home, myself. I hope this damned war will end soon, that way I can see her happy again. What I wouldn’t give to see her smile.” The corner of Jayden’s mouth turns up slightly.

“Basically. Hey, do any of you know who the radio operator is?”

“Got your eye on someone already? Why don’t you wait ‘till leave? It’s better in town,” Stone says, ignoring Peter’s laughter.

Jayden blushes. “Not my type. She just looks familiar to me. Do you know what her name is?” Peters and Stone exchange glances, each shrugging their shoulders. Jayden sighs, biting his lip softly in thought. He checks his watch and excuses himself from the table. Jackson jumps up from his seat as Jayden leaves, earning a few concerned looks from other Squadrons. He catches up to his leader halfway across the tarmac, his breathing slightly labored. Jayden looks at him questioningly. “You don’t have to follow me, you know. I’m just going to get the Hurricanes warmed up… though, now that you’re here, I _could_ take you up earlier than I intended.”

Jackson smiles. “That’s wonderful, sir. I can help, if you need.” He had taken a liking to the new S/L. He was driven, passionate and strong, from what Jackson had observed. He had the look about him of being capable to handle the pressures of combat and keeping people alive, even if he broke when nobody was watching. Jackson knows how it feels to be weak and vulnerable. A week before their previous S/L left, they were running a mission; a bomber escort to Germany. Though they were bombing by night, the Germans were still warned of the coming attack. They were greeted at the German border by twenty Me-109s, guns glinting like teeth in the moonlight. They hadn’t attacked the English at first, giving them time to retreat; but as soon as they were within firing range, it was a storm of bullets. Most of Eagle Squadron 253 used their ammo within the first few seconds of the dogfight, then became diversions for the rest of the team to get a clear shot. Jackson, unfortunately, was one of those people. While trying to shake a 109 off his tail, he was jarred off course by a barrage of .50 cal bullets to his fuselage. Jackson had tried to keep the plane up, but it was too late. The 109 had torn apart his fuel line, sending the Hurricane in a deadly spiral towards Earth. He hit the ground in a burst of heat and smoke. Somehow, Jackson made it through the wreckage, but not without a few cuts and burns. He would later learn that it wasn’t the 109 that shot him down.

Jackson leaves the memory behind and jogs in front of Jayden, waving his arm. “Follow me, our blast pens are back here.”

Each squadron had their own blast pens, usually two.  Each pen was able to hold four planes each, with two in the hangar, if space permitted. Jayden’s blast pen was adjacent to the briefing room, something he had, somehow, missed. Their revetment, however, was much larger than normal, holding all eight of their fighters, with one at the front missing. Jayden is rendered breathless at the sight of it. No matter how long he’s been flying, the sight of an idle aircraft still sent his heart into overdrive. He grins widely at Briggs, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to be superior. Instead, he’s acting like a rookie. He inhales deeply, regaining his composure. “Alright. Get your plane fired up. I’ll find mine and join you shortly.”

“Wait, we’re going up _now?_ ” Jackson calls after Jayden’s retreating form. He stops and turns around.

“Why not? It’s perfect. The sky is as clear as it’s going to get, and nobody’s up there. Besides, I want to run you through some maneuvers on your own, with nobody watching.”

Jackson is mystified. Normally, a Squadron Leader would never do anything like this. It definitely wasn’t unheard of, but it seems a little… strange for someone like Jayden. When they had first spoken, Jackson had thought him uptight and strict, like he wasn’t one for breaking protocol. That was Stone’s job.

Eventually, Jackson’s emotions win out and he’s bounding to his plane. Jayden found his way to their hangar, where a Spitfire, fresh out of the factory, sat on the runway; another thing he had missed. The fighter’s metal body gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting off the sharp edges and soft curves. There was no doubt that this was his. Jayden climbs atop the fighter’s wing, leaning over the side to start the machine’s engine. He instantly falls in love with the roar of the engine and the way the propellers blow the grass in different directions. He’s seen Spitfires as the performed maneuvers over the airfields, their elegance and grace something he would have loved to experience for himself.

Now, he’s finally here.

Jayden’s checking the rudders on the plane--running his fingers delicately along the metal--when Jackson jogs around the corner of the hangar, already in his flight gear. “I’m ready when you are, sir. I believe Acker left a suit for you in the briefing room, while you were in the barracks. I can get it, if you want.”

“That’s alright, I can get it. I’ll be ready in a moment. Check your radio and make sure everything is satisfactory.” Jackson nods and sprints away, Jayden following as far as the briefing room. True to his word, there was an olive-green flight suit and helmet, cleaned and ready for use. Jayden doesn’t spend much time reveling in the feel of the suit, as he always did before a flight, and pulls it on hastily, eager to be in the air after two weeks of waiting. He tucks his helmet under his arm and jogs back to his fighter.

Jayden gives the plane one last exterior check, judging the tire pressure and breaks. When everything looks to be in order, he jumps onto the fighter’s left wing and throws himself into the cockpit. Jayden secures the helmet and headset over his head, adjusts the microphone and connects to the airbase frequency.

“Flight Lieutenant Briggs, everything checks out?” Jayden asks as he reviews his oxygen tanks, fuel level and whatever else he could think of. He glances over at the instrument panels and gives the control yoke a few experimental turns, which follow his guidance smoothly. When everything is to his liking, Jayden attaches the oxygen tubes to his mask, desperately trying to refrain from yelling into the headset. He was finally doing this--what he’s been wanting to do his entire life. _What would my father say_?

“...ready for takeoff?” Briggs asks over the radio, bringing Jayden back to the present.

“I believe so, Briggs. Taxi out, I’ll follow.” Jayden waits until he sees Jackson's Hurricane pull away from the blast pen before dropping the canopy and releasing the parking breaks. He puts a little pressure on the throttle, swinging the Spitfire onto the tarmac and making a few last-minute adjustments.

“White Three, requesting flight clearance,” Jackson says. A female voice responds, allowing him takeoff and wishing him a good run. Jayden stops the fighter, waiting for Jackson to reach the required speed and watching as he brings the plane’s nose up, leaving the finite of ground behind him in trade for the infinite sky. Jayden eases the Spitfire forward, requesting takeoff clearance.

“White Leader, you are clear for takeoff.” Jayden takes a deep breath, pushing down on the throttle. The fields around him turn to blue-green blurs. His gaze flicks to the speedometer every few seconds, awaiting that blissful moment when he would reach 225 kilometers per hour. The tail of the plane moves upward slightly, not enough to break control, but enough to remind Jayden that this wasn’t a bomber. He worked the right aileron and the right rudder pedal together, keeping the Spitfire from diving into the ground and breaking the propellers.

Finally, the fighter reaches 225 kilometers per hour. Jayden pulls the yoke towards him gently, following Jackson’s ascent path. When he reaches 5,000 feet, he places the breath mask over his nose and mouth, breathing in the clean air. When he breaks through the cloud cover, Jayden finds Jackson circling above him, tilting his wings in a waving motion. Jayden responds with the same movement.

“Everything alright, Briggs?” Jayden asks, flying around him in large circles.

“I think so, sir,” Jackson answers. “What do you want to run?”

“A bit of a test: stay on my wing and follow me.” Jackson takes up the wingman’s position on Jayden’s right wing, tilting his wings in acknowledgment. Jayden dives sharply, then pulls the nose up in a vertical loop, Jackson still on his wing. At the end of the loop, Jackson follows his leader through an Immelmann Turn, faltering a little on the half roll. Jayden brings the Spitfire around in a Split-S, remaining straight and level. Jayden grins, mouth open in a laugh only he can hear. He’s watched the fighters at Cranwell perform those same maneuvers and more, completely awestruck by their beauty, consistency and coordination.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jackson asks sarcastically, pulling ahead of Jayden and moving to his left wing.

“I haven’t had much training, but let’s see what I can do.” Jayden runs through some of the moves he’s seen and read about. He orbits the same coordinates while he pieces together a routine, just to see how Jackson would keep up

Without warning, Jayden guides his fighter through a Split-S, smiling when Briggs fails to stick with him. However, he doesn’t hesitate in hurriedly completing a Chandelle, entering a Wingover and ending with Aileron Roll. Jackson manages to catch up with him and pulled out of the roll-on Jayden’s right wing, rather than the left where he started.

“Not bad, sir. Not bad at all.” Briggs’ unimpressed tone belies the astonished expression on his face. Jayden flew with a grace Jackson had never witnessed; even some of the pilots who’ve been here their lives couldn’t match him. “One more run through? I know I can stay with you this time.” Jayden laughs, but agrees.

 

An hour later, their fuel running low, leader and comrade touch down on the runway, Squadron 153 greeting them with applause. Even Peters had joined them, smiling and clapping with the rest. Jayden follows Briggs to their blast pen and taxis into an empty space. He kills the engine and pops the canopy, simultaneously removing his helmet and headset. He jumps from the cockpit, Jackson approaching him with his arms crossed. Jayden’s legs were quivering and his heart felt weak, making it extremely difficult to remain standing despite the strong hands grasping his shoulders.

“I’m not gonna lie, sir… that was some _beautiful_ flying! We were told you didn’t have any fighter training!”

“I… I had a bit. I picked it up from reading and observing,” Jayden’s face burned red under Jackson’s gaze. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“It took me years to master an Aileron Roll-- I still have trouble with it--yet you do it with no trouble! How?”

Jayden shrugs. “I guess it’s just what comes with being a Skywalker.”  


	3. Chapter Three

23 JUNE 1942-EARNHARDT AIRFIELD, GERMANY   (Ten days later)

                “Vandenberg,” a deep, accented voice sounds through the darkness, trying to pull Han away from its comfort. “Hauptmann Vandenberg… Han, aufwachen.” Hearing his name brings him back to light. Blinking his eyes open, the blurred face of his Major—Sontir Fel—hovers over him. Han smiles and inhales deeply, stretching the sleep from his limbs. He releases his breath in a long sigh and sits upright.

            “You’re needed downstairs, Vandenberg. It’s about the operation.” Han sighs. Of course, it’s about the operation--it’s all they ever talk about. A few weeks ago, with the help of their Wing Commander, 34 Fighter Division devised a plan that, they hoped, would take England out of the war for good. The _Luftwaffe_ had sent recon planes to scour the English countryside for any airfield that might pose a major threat, that they needed to eliminate quickly. Han was one of the recon pilots. He had returned with three top priority airfields: Bentley Priory, Biggin Hill, and Lincolnshire.

            “Warum brauchen sie mich?” Han asks, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I’m no use to them,” Han speaks English--very well--but he, like most everyone else in Earnhardt, spoke natively on the ground. It wasn’t a requirement here, but it was in the sky. The squadrons had yet to have a transmission intercepted, but it was better to be safe.

            Fel is quiet for a few seconds but when Han opens his eyes and stares at him quizzically, he says, “The Colonel has chosen you to fly the mission with us. You’re our best pilot and he thought it a good idea.”

            At this, Han jumps from the warmth of the sheets. “You’re serious?!”

            Fel smirks. “I’m very serious. You’d better get down there if you want to hear it for yourself.” His eyes flick downward. “However, you might want to dress first.” Han blushes, having forgotten that, due to the warm June nights, he had slept without trousers.

            “Of course,” Han says, gesturing for Fel to leave him. “I’ll be down shortly.” Fel nods, laughing softly and leaves Han be. The dark-haired pilot kneels in front of the footlocker by his bed and shifts through the small number of belongings he was allowed: _The Sound and the Fury,_ a photo of his parents, and a Rosary. Han definitely wasn’t a religious person, but his mother insisted he take it, before she died. Han takes his uniform from the back of the locker, pulled it on hastily and washed his face with the cold water from the basin by the window. Satisfied with his appearance, Han left the room and descended the stairs, where he was greeted by the tired faces of his comrades, illuminated by the flickering firelight.

            “Well, it’s about time!” Leutnant Astolfo Weiz, the best bomber in Germany and one of Han’s closest friends, calls sarcastically from the back of the common room. “We’ve been here since four!”

            “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Han smiles.

            “Believe me, Vandenberg, we tried. For two hours. Each time someone would get near you, you’d roll over. You hid under your pillow, at one point,” Fel answers, clapping Han on the back.

            He laughs, enjoying this moment of happiness before getting to business. “So, what’s that important you had to wake me?”

            “Well, as you know,” Astolfo begins, approaching Han. “You were part of the reconnaissance operation we sent over England and the results you returned with were extremely useful. Fel decided you would be a great addition to the escort, so he convinced the higher-ups to approve. In short, you’re flying with us.”

            Han’s excitement fades. _Bomber escort?_ That’s not what he had in mind. Despite this, he fakes a smile. “What’s our first target?”

            “We’ll be sending out three different bombers, one to each airbase. You’ll provide cover for your bomber if said airbases send up fighters but, of course, you knew that.” Fel looks towards their bomber, a genuine smile on his face. “Try to hit their hangars and revetments.” Astolfo nods.

            Fel returns his attention to Han. “I want you to take the fighters up, run some tactics. Use whatever you think relevant and report back to me. You are dismissed.” Han gestures for the pilots to follow him and exits the barracks. It was colder this morning than usual, the chill air ripping its talon’s through Han’s body. The others hiss against the cold, rubbing their arms in the hope of creating warmth, but to no avail.

            Earnhardt Airfield wasn’t very big. It held two hangars (one at each end of the field), a mess hall, watchtower, barracks and two runways--one for takeoff, one for landing. Their planes were kept in cul-de-sacs at the end of the taxiways leading from the hangars. Each squadron had a cul-de-sac, where nine planes were kept, including the bombers. Unlike the English, Earnhardt didn’t have different bases for bombers. It was easier to keep bombing and fighter squadrons together.

            The conversations behind Han kept the mood light, laughter ringing through the silent dawn. He would participate in those conversing, but he had found, early on, that his presence wasn’t particularly welcome among the pilots. Han guessed it was because he had progressed rather quickly from a rookie to Fel’s second-in-command. Astolfo had been the first to approach him and start conversation, soon realizing that he wasn’t as bad as he seemed. Han had an intimidating air about him, which was clear to everyone. Even the people of the town, a few miles downhill from the base, scarcely looked his way. Some little kids would approach him in pubs, their parents behind them, and ask him questions. Han felt welcomed by them and since had attracted groups of school children begging him for stories. He would always deliver and they would leave with a smile on their face. He was a hero to them, someone they could idolize; yet the older ones wouldn’t look at him. He could feel their judgmental stares on his back as he left, each of them seeming to say, “It’s all your fault! You’re losing the war and we’re paying for it.” It’s not easy, Han knows that.

            None of this is.

            When the squadron reaches their revetment, the air around them seems less tense, more focused on the task at hand and the thrill it would bring. “Fire up your engines. I’ll get the ground crew to remove your chocks. We’ll move once everyone acknowledges they’re ready.” The squadron salutes and jogs to their planes, eager to get in the air. Han can’t blame them. He’s been flying for nearly fifteen years, yet he still gets the adrenaline rush that characterizes new pilots. His heart feels light, stomach churning with nervous energy, and his mind racing a mile a minute.

            Han approaches his fighter: a beautiful Focke-Wulf 190, fresh out of the factory. The propellers shine in the early light, reflecting off the metal of the fuselage. The fighter casts an eerie shadow over Han, like the way a bomber does a city. For some people, that’s the last thing they see; the darkness of a bomber’s silhouette. Han’s thought about how scared civilians must be, on both sides. He’s run his share of bombing escorts, but he was so caught up in protecting his quarry that he didn’t stop to think about how much fear he instilled in people’s hearts. However, it all caught up with him in the late hours of the night, when he returned home and lie in bed. He would lay awake for hours, scared and guilty.

            At times, he would question his loyalty.

            _Am I on the right side? Is this going to work out for us? Or is this all for nothing?_

He belongs to Germany. This will work out. Everything will be okay.

            Han takes a deep breath to clear those thoughts from his head and circles the plane to the left wing, where his flight suit hangs on the tip. It’s become a regularity to leave one’s flight suit on his plane’s wing, that way it’s ready for an immediate call to action. He pulls the suit on hastily and jumps onto the wing, leaning over the side to start the engine. Han basks in the rumble of the engine, the way the metal vibrates with the sound. The chocks are still in place behind the wheels, ensuring that the fighter wouldn’t move when the engine turned over. Han slides from the wing and jogs to the nearby hangar, where he’s sure the ground crew is working.

            “Hey, Vandenberg!” Duerbeck, a mechanic destined for the skies, calls from beneath a fighter, his teeth bared in concentration. “Didn’t break your fighter already, did you?” Han was known throughout the airfield as the pilot who, almost, always broke a plane before, during, or after an operation. He’s always made it through, but it angered Fighter Command immensely. They couldn’t let him go, as he was their best pilot and it wasn’t his fault. Normally, it was an engine failure or the landing gears wouldn’t initiate, resulting in a crash. The Fw is the only fighter he hasn’t broken after its first mission: two weeks in with only a few scratches.

            Duerbeck approaches Han, throwing a wrench on a cloth-covered table and wiping his hands on his suit, leaving trails of oil down the front. “Not yet,” Han says, looking over his shoulder at Christian Fischer, an American pilot, standing nervously by the doorway. “Let’s hope my luck holds out.” He looks back at Duerbeck. “I need you to remove our chocks.

            “Of course.” Duerbeck nods. “Everyone going up?”

            “Mostly. Thought it would be good practice. Fel’s orders.” Han was forbidden to share any information about the operation, no matter who they were. The _Luftwaffe_ couldn’t risk exposure of their ideas.

            “Alright. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll send you on your way.” Duerbeck turns to leave, but Han stops him.

            “We’re ready. Our engines are fired up and everything seems to be in working order. But, if you could check tire pressure before we leave, that would be great.” The mechanic nods, gesturing for Han to lead the way.

            Duerbeck should have been a pilot. He’s had a passion for flying since he was young, but something in his mind, Han assumed, made it impossible. Fischer, the American, was a strange addiction to the squadron, unlike Duerbeck. He was a miracle. Fischer was a P.O.W. that Han had taken and when he was brought to Fighter Command, Fischer asked to join them. It took a long time to prove his loyalty, which meant months of intense training and watchful eyes on him wherever he went. He was proving to be a good addition but, some pilots, like Han, found him unnerving. At any point, he could realize he made a mistake and take down Earnhardt from the inside… Despite this, Han has spoken to Fischer and the two of them had become something like friends. However, that doesn’t eliminate the feeling of fear Han has at the bottom of his heart.

            “You’re going up earlier than usual,” Duerbeck says when they reach the cul-de-sac. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a squadron go up this early.”

            “Yeah, well, Fel wanted us to run practice, and you can’t really argue with a Major,” Han points out. “Start with mine and make your way down. I trust everyone knows what to do.” Duerbeck follows Han to his 190, looking at the machine with awe.

            “If you ever crash this thing, I _will_ hurt you,” Duerbeck calls to Han, who was positioned on the wing. Han smiles at the mechanic.

            “Good luck with that one, buddy.” Han steps over the side of the cockpit and settles himself down behind the control yoke. “When I give you the O.K., remove the chocks and move on to the next pilot, alright?” Duerbeck nods his understanding. Han finishes attaching the oxygen tanks to his breath mask and fastens the harness around his torso, the straps tight and claustrophobic. The last thing he does is secure his helmet and headset over his ears, checking the radio frequency. Han closes the canopy and flashes Duerbeck an obscene gesture, which the mechanic took to mean he’s ready. He removes the chocks and, as soon as they’re gone, Han’s taxiing from the revetment, his fighter steady and controlled. Gazing after the retreating form, Duerbeck moves down the line of fighters.

            Working alongside these pilots makes Duerbeck wonder what life might have been like if things were different. Duerbeck’s father had been a pilot in the First World War and Duerbeck had dreamed of being one himself. Whenever a fighter would tear by on clear nights, him and his father would stare up at it, dreaming of the future and remembering the past. When Duerbeck was diagnosed with a mental condition and deemed unstable, he was forced to lose those dreams. As he grew older, he stopped watching fighters fly above his house and whenever he would hear a fighter, he covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. They simply held too much hurt. His medical records were like phantoms, following him through his life in an infinite darkness.

“White Two, requesting clearance,” Han says over the radio. He kept his fighter in idle at the end of the tarmac, awaiting to operator’s response.

“White Two, you’re clear,” the operator responds tiredly. Han nudges the 190 forward, easing it up to full throttle, blurring the surrounding landscapes. The G-Forces held him against the leather seat, a sensation Han never failed to enjoy.

When the speedometer reaches 251 kilometers per hour, Han pulls the yoke towards him, bringing the front wheels off the ground, followed by the back. Over the transmission White Five, a pilot known as Armin Faerber, requests and is granted clearance. A few minutes later he’s in the air, following Han’s ascent path. The two circle each other until the rest of the squadron joins them in the sky.

“Beautiful weather,” Armin says in fluent German, trying to break the tense silence that fell over them.

“Very,” Han responds. Even during training, it was a requirement to speak natively over transmissions, in case they happened to be tapped. Those who preferred English hate it, as too many things could be misinterpreted. One mistranslation, no matter how small, and the mission was screwed up.

“What’s your plan, Vandenberg?” Ferdinand Schultz, a twenty-five-year-old pilot from Southern German, asks as he joins Han and Armin above the cloud cover.

“I’ll let you know in a minute, White Six. Wait until everyone is up.” White Six waves his wings in acknowledgment.

After several more minutes, the rest of the squadron is in the air, awaiting Han’s commands. Whenever Fel wasn’t with them, it was Han who took over the role of Major. He was Fel’s wingman and nominated to take his place when he retired. Han wasn’t eager to become a Major; he was perfectly content as a Captain. “Alright. Everyone falls into escort formation: nobody without a wingman.”

The group assembles in a wide oval shape with room in the middle to simulate a bomber. On each plane, there is another positioned behind and right of its partner’s right wing. The pilots took this seriously, acting as if they were in a real situation. Han flies above them, falling back just enough to see the formation and correct any errors there might be. He would have been flying ahead of the bomber, alongside Fel, if this were a real operation. Han reviews the layout again, coming up with a simulated attack.

“We should have brought Astolfo up here,” Han says. Astolfo was a damn good bomber. His hit accuracy was unlike any on record, yet he’s never painted the stripes on his bomber, nicknamed _Nightmare._ It was tradition among German pilots to paint their number of victories or operations on their bomber’s tail; a symbol of their success and worth.

“Watch your left, White Eight.” Han observes as Justus Fleiss falls away from the side of the “bomber,” his wingman taking over his position as he tries to evade an invisible attacker. The pilot swerves to the left and over the bomber, trying to confuse his enemy by switching places with White Three, as right wingman. It would have been more effective if Fleiss had taken over the forward wingman’s position, but it would result in their objective taking critical damage. That wasn’t part of any plan that had been devised, but it was a fluid, improvised movement that might work in a real battle. It followed the rule, “nobody without a wingman” and still protected the bomber from attack. In a real escort there would be someone where Han is now, normally the best in combat. They would be in charge of taking out any enemy fighters that came their way and act as scouts.

“In two hundred, as soon as we’re above the town, peel away and fall behind me in attack formation. Be prepared for counterattacks. White Four and Five, scout ahead for any AA turrets and flak gunners,” Han commands.

When they reach the town everyone, save for White Four and White Five, fall behind their leader, the two scouts pulling ahead just enough to see the simulated English airbase.

Having scouts was vital to an escort mission, no matter where you were. Even countries with a low military arsenal had a way to take out enemy aircraft. Those were usually the bitterest to witness. During Han’s time in the African Campaign, on their flight from Egypt to Italy, him and his squadron had encountered a significant number of British flak guns and fighters. It was far too expensive to transport that many guns from country-to-country, which left Han to believe that they had been made in Africa.

Han had lost his best friend that day, to a British Hurricane pilot. His call sign was _Blue Mist,_ and Han had sworn that he would find the pilot and bring him down. That's what kept him going for the past two years; the promise of revenge. Losing someone wasn’t easy and Han’s only grown more susceptible to it as the war continued. It scared him, how much it hurt. He had never experienced pain such as this

Not even when his father left.

Han thought his world had ended, that there was nothing left for him. His mother had been the same way but, instead of helping each other through the pain, Han had turned to drinking. He was only thirteen years old and already going out on weekends to get drunk with friends. When his mother found out, she was devastated. They had fought, driven by Han’s drunken anger. Two years went by and, when she couldn’t handle it anymore, his mother left him. Han had been drinking heavily that night and couldn’t remember any of the things either of them said. Until he found the note she had left…

Unshed tears blur Han’s vision. He blinks them away and turns his mind to practice. The town beneath them, a few kilometers from Earnhardt was still and silent, the streets empty and blanketed in fog. “Fall back. Heavy reinforcements ahead.” The squadron does as ordered, falling into formation behind Han. “The enemy is prepared for combat. White Three, stay below me, to the right and ahead. White Four, on my left, across from Three. The rest of you, fall in behind them. I’ll act as bomber. Coordinate and defend me from incoming attacks. Don’t stray too far.”

The squadron acknowledges Han’s command and complete the formation with him in the center. It feels… different, being in the position of a bomber. The world beneath him seems so different when you aren’t looking at it from a fighter’s perspective; rather a pilot with a much crueler objective: destruction. Han had never considered flying bombers. It seemed like too much of a burden to him. Through, it would be nice to have a crew of his own and bring Germany one step closer to victory.

Han clears his head once again and observes the pilots below him, weaving around each other to shake the enemy. “Objective in range. Preparing to drop,” Han says, voice steady. The pilots acknowledge and fall back to their positions around the bomber. Han brings his fighter into the center of the oval. “Dropping.”

Each plane peels away, giving Han space. After a few minutes, enough time to simulate a real bombing, the fighters fall into formation behind Han, congratulating each other as they would after an operation. The dark-haired pilot smiles at the laughter he hears.

It’s a rare thing, laughter. The war seemingly drew all happiness from any living being. Han is easy to humor when he’s in the mood for it. He was notorious around the airbase for his sudden outbursts of anger and isolation, only leaving the barracks for training. Nobody knew what he did in these times of loneliness. Nobody except Fel. The two would spend hours together. The other pilots never assume anything, as it wasn’t uncommon for two men to just talk. Han was thankful for that--not because anything was happening--because he didn’t want those rumors to follow him throughout his career.

Fel was almost like a brother to Han, something he had never gotten to experience. However, lying beneath that innocent emotion could be something far more sinister, neither of them knowing it. It’s nothing new to Han, having feeling like that, though he rarely feels attachment of that sort. IN times like this, it wasn’t uncommon to get attached to your squadmates; they are the men you’re going to be spending most your time with, after all. Fel and Han both hope that’s what everyone thinks. The two had a beautiful friendship, that much was clear. The only thing more beautiful than that was when the two flew together, their engines roaring as one like a symphony, matched with their coordinated movements. They were moments of peace and serenity for them both; nothing but the open air and planes flying in sync, a comforting reassurance that the other was always there, everlasting and never leaving.

Han has no idea how Fel feels about him. He hasn’t shown any clear sexual emotion towards Han. He was comforting and sympathetic, only touching Han if he asked for it or knew he needed human contact. He was always there, the calm after the storm. Thoughts have kept him up at night, questions running through his mind: _Do I love him? Am I going crazy?_

Han sighs and pushes the memories to the far reaches of his mind. “Nice run, boys. Let’s go home, it’s cold up here.” Though the flight suits were heavily insulated, just enough cold managed to slip through the material and freeze Han to the bone; the only thing he hated about flying. Han brings the 190 through a Chandelle, the squadron following behind him.

“Why haven’t you taken a squadron of your own, Vandenberg?” Fischer questions. “You have a natural talent for leadership.”

Han groans inwardly. “In all honesty, Fisher, I don’t _want_ to be a leader. I’m fine where I am.”

“I don’t think any of us believe you,” Shultz says. “We all know how much you want to take over Fel’s position.”

“Yeah, that’s why he and Fel spend so much time together,” Fischer voices drawing raucous laughter from everyone. “Trying to get on his good side.” Han blushes, the chill of high altitude vanishing from his being.

“What is your connection with the Major, anyway?” The questioner was soft, yet mature, which Han connects to White Three, Karl Albitz. He’s silent and observant, so Han isn’t too surprised he knew about that. Han doesn’t answer right away. “It was just a question, you don’t have to answer.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Han answers sharply, much too harsh. “Forget anything you might have heard.” His tone silences the pilot, sending them into a journey of silence.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything is louder than usual when Han enters the mess. The lights seem brighter, the air cleaner and the atmosphere joyous. Division 34 was seated at their usual table towards the back of the hall, smiling and laughing. It seems the squadron’s good spirits had rubbed off on the rest of the airfield; it was rare to see everything so vibrant. This early in the morning, everyone is either asleep at their tables or skipping the meal altogether. Han’s been in both positions before, even falling asleep while waiting for a last-minute touch up on his fighter before a mission. Fel would always be there to wake him up.

Throughout their three years of friendship, the routine hadn’t changed; Han would sleep in, Fel would rouse him, walk him to the mess, then go his separate ways until the early hours of the evening, when they reunite for a late practice. It was more of an air show, really, with the maneuvers they flew. They had an audience, once. Or twice. Han wasn’t sure.

The squadron waves the Captain over, gesturing to an empty spot beside Astolfo and across from Fel. Han’s happy to see him, there’s no denying that.

“Welcome home, Vandenberg,” Astolfo says, clapping Han on the back as he takes his seat “How was the weather?”

“Same as always. Absolutely dreadful,” Han answers jokingly, waving away the food that was passed to him. A bundle of nervous energy was lodged in the bottom of his stomach, working its way to his throat in the form of bile. Why, he wasn’t sure.

“I trust the runs went well?” Sontir asks.

Han nods. “They went as well as they could. We went as far as the town over, practiced a raid, then came home. Quite elementary, but your men did well.” Han nurses a cup of coffee that was passed to him from the end of the table, the warmth working miracles on his near-frozen hands.

“They’ll be your Division soon, Vandenberg,” Fel says, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll do a hell of a lot better than I could.”

Han tries to stop himself from choking when he hears those words. “You… you’re leaving?” he asks between coughs, eyes watering.

“Well, not yet. I want you to know what it’s like to lead, before the war is won.” It was a terrible excuse.

“I’m sure I’ll have other chances.” Han knows he sounds pathetic, like a little girl begging her mother to play with her. _That’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m the annoying little brother who always pesters the older_? “Why would you leave?”

“My work is done here. You’ve shown you’re capable of handling a flight and I’ve been in this game far too long--”

“Three years isn’t ‘too long’,” Han interrupts. “Major Wachs’ been here since the First World War.”

“Vandenberg, there’s nothing you can do to keep me here.” Sontir makes to rest his hand on Hans, a gesture he’s grown accustomed to doing when he needs comforting but thinks better of it. Instead, he gestures to the men around him. “These pilots need a new leader and you’re the one to give it to them.”

“We really don’t need a new leader, sir,” Astolfo says, resting his hand on Han’s shoulder. He relaxes a bit. “But, if you’re considering retirement--”

“You aren’t helping, buddy,” Han says, punching hi playfully and grinning despite the news he had just received. _I can’t believe he’s leaving._

“I’m sorry, Vandenberg,” Fel says after several awkward moments. “It’s just… something that needs to be done. You need to take over. I’ve seen you in the skies and you’re quick with your mind and nerves, relying on instinct. You’re reckless, but strategic. It’s wonderful.

“That doesn’t have to do with anything.” Han hangs his head for a few seconds, then looks up at Fel again. “Can you at least tell me when you’re leaving?”

Fel takes a deep breath, not wanting to look Vandenberg in the eye. This is as hard for him as it is for Han. He’s leaving his best friend, the only one who understood him. He didn’t want to do this either, but when he got a letter from a flight academy in Eastern Germany, he couldn’t refuse the offer. It was closer to home and it gave him a chance to escape the war that had made his life a living hell since it began. There was only one person who brought him happiness, as much as pain, and that man was sitting across from him, a look of pain on his face.

Finally, Fel manages to say, “after tomorrow’s mission”

Han fixes the Major with a pained stare. He clenches his jaw and dips his head, not bothering to brush away the hair that fell in his eyes. Sontir wants to reach out, brush the strands away and tell him it will be alright.

Han stands without warning. He glances over his shoulder one last time before leaving the mess. Fel wants to rush after him, tell him everything he has to say before tomorrow passes. He loves the reckless pilot, he’s given up denying it long ago. There’s something about him that brightens the darkest nights, something Fel hasn’t had the luxury to feel. He excuses himself and leaves the hall.

He finds Han in the hangar at the far end of the airfield, curled up on the wing of an Fw-191, his head resting against the fuselage. He doesn’t move when Fel joins him, legs dangling over the edge of the wing. The hangar is silent, broken only by the whistling of the wind. Fell occasionally glances Han, who hasn’t moved.

“Han… “Fel begins, faltering at a sharp intake of breath.

“You meant so much to me. You were my brother. I loved you. I loved you so much it hurts.” Han barely registers what he’s saying, his heart thundering in his chest and his head clouded with emotion. “I thought we could have… “He stops before he can say anything dangerous; not that he hasn’t already. He’s never shared his secret with anybody, not even family. Homosexuality was uncommon, but not unheard of, yet anyone with feelings toward the same sex was considered “sick.” Han hated it. He’s been living a lie for ten years, screaming on the inside.

Han breathes deeply. “I thought we could have shared something.”

“What do you mean?” Then, Fel understands. “You’re in love.” It wasn’t a question.

Han nods, tears falling from his eyes. It takes a lot to make him cry, and this was one of those sensitive topics. “It’s kept me up at night, all these thoughts… feelings.” He finally looks up at Fel, eyes bright green from tears. “I realized… it’s you. I want you. Do with that what you’d like.”

Fel remained still, completely dumbfounded. He’s never before considered Han’s sexuality, nor that he could potentially harbor feelings for him. Now that he knew the truth, something awoke in his heart, a fiery dragon roused from its years-long slumber. He felt happy; genuinely happy.

Fel moves closer to Han, taking his trembling, calloused hand in his own and bringing it to rest on his heart. “I know how hard it is to tell someone these things. Trust me. Being around you was sometimes hard, because I knew you wouldn’t ever feel the same way. I’m so, so glad I knew the truth, and I promise, I won’t ever use it against you.”

Han searches Fel’s eyes for any hint of a lie. “You mean it.” His voice is weak, belying the confidence he usually held.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” Fel asks, holding Han’s face between his palms.”

“I’m not… normal. Why don’t you hate me, like everyone else?”

“Han, I don’t care who you love, or what you’re like. You’re mine, now, even when we’re apart.” Han smiles; a beacon through a storm cloud. It makes Fel’s heart seem lighter than air. He pulls Han into a tight embrace, laughing into the crook of his neck. He pulls back slightly after what felt like years, just a few inches apart.

Fel laughs softly, a sweet sound. “I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it out,” he says quietly, staring deeply into Han’s eyes.

“Figure what out?” Han asks just as softly.

“That I love you.”

Han doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer. It seems too good to be real. He wants to kiss him, let everything he can’t say make itself clear through that simple action. Instead, he just sits there, staring into his best friend’s eyes. Millions of words pass between them, only to be interrupted by the air raid siren.

“Was there a drill today?” Han asks, now fully alert. Fel doesn’t answer, staring over his shoulder at the hangar opening.

“There… wasn’t supposed to be… we’d better go.” Fel pushes himself from the wing, Han following him close behind.

The entirety of Division 34 was in the revetments, preparing their planes for a fight. Duerbeck is already removing chocks from fighters, the roaring of passing aircraft filling the airfield. Han makes for his 190, pulling on his flight suit before mounting the wing. He calls for Duerbeck to remove his chocks.

“Be careful,” Fel calls up to Han before he closes the canopy. “I’ll be up soon.”

“I’ll see you then.” As soon as the chocks are away Han’s taxiing from the revetment and, just like that, Fel’s joy is replaced with fear. There wasn’t supposed to be a bombing drill today, which could only mean one thing.

Fel sprints to his fighter, a Messerschmitt Bf-109, and dons his flight suit, settling down behind the controls and calling Duerbeck over. When his fighter is free, Fel closes the canopy and maneuvers the plane towards the runway. He doesn’t ask for clearance, instead gaining speed and taking to the skies. He can, just barely, make out the tail of Han’s fighter ahead of him, flying west.

“Bombers are ahead of us, sir. Surrounded by an escort of Spitfires. What’s the plan?”

“Who else is up here?” If it’s just the two of them in that area, he’ll have Han go for the bomber while he cleared out the escort.

“Just us, right here. I’ll go for the fighters, you take out the bomber?”

“No, other way around. Do a dive pass and hit the bomber from the top but watch out for its gunners.”

“Yes, sir.” Han brings the fighter up, judging his altitude in contrast to the bomber. The machine looms closer, it’s 110-foot wingspan casting and even larger shadow on the ground. The whine of its four engines instill fear in Han’s heart, though it was nothing compared to the terror the citizens beneath them must feel. England has been bombing German cities for nearly the entire war, the victim country retaliating with their own bombs. Nobody, on either side, knows who will be next; that’s what scares them the most. Han is almost on top of the bomber when he drives down sharply, firing a few seconds of ammunition. The metal hill is littered with a string of bullet holes, small tendrils of smoke rising from the tail.

“Nice shot,” Fel says, voice tight with concentration. Han circles back around in time to watch a Hurricane fall from the sky, waiting desperately for its pilot to jump.

It never happens.

The pilot goes down with his plane in a burst of fire. Han squeezes his eyes shut. The one thing about war you never get used to; watching others die at your hand. It’s a terrible thing. Nobody should die like that, without ever saying goodbye to their families. Instead, they waste away in some farmer’s field, their body charred from flames.

It takes everything Han has to fire at the bomber again, this time managing to hit the fourth engine. The propellers stop, smoke and flames unfurling from the front. The bomber’s top gunner fires at Han, missing nearly every shot. One stray bullet managed to strike the back of his fuselage, nowhere significant to deal much damage.

“You alright, Han?”

“I’m alright, Fel. Just a scratch.” Han turns around. “I’m going back for another pass.”

“Try to take out the pilot.” The bitterness in Fel’s voice sends shivers down Han’s spine, but he can’t disobey a superior, no matter how cold the order. _This is war._ Han steels himself before firing the last of his ammo through the wind guard of the bomber. He takes deep breaths, hoping he hadn’t killed the pilot.

“Nice shot, Vandenberg!” Fel exclaims excitedly. Han laughs attempting to hide his true emotion. He feels sick.

“I need to reload. I’ll be up shortly.”

“I can handle it. I’ll scare these bastards home.”

“Come back to us. I don’t know how long I’ll be on the ground.”

“You got it.” The two share a silent goodbye, then Han turns towards the airbase. His throat feels constricted. He just killed a human being, voluntarily. When he goes on operations and shoots down fighters, he does it in the hopes that the pilot will jump. Usually they do. Never has he taken out a pilot like he just did, not allowing him a chance at life.

Other pilots are in the air now, speeding past Han without glancing over. He idly wonders if they feel the same thing he does: remorse, regret, and guilt for taking another man’s life. This isn’t how he wanted to live. When he entered training, Han didn’t expect another war so soon after the last one. Clearly, he had been wrong.

Han had built up a brave facade over the years, making himself appear tough and capable, but this war has taken so much out of him. He wishes, desperately, to cry after taking several lives; wishes he had the power to stop this; it’s not how the world should be.

“Home so soon, White Two?” the operator asks as Han comes within view of the airfield. The tarmac is empty and most of the revetments are empty; a good sign.

“Just need to reload. I’ll be back up soon.” Han slows down, angling the fighter’s nose for landing. His touch down is rough but, as soon as the plane is stationary, the guns are being reloaded, sending Han on his way far earlier than Han would have liked. Almost twenty minute later, he’s in the air once more, heading towards the remaining fighters and bombers. There aren’t many Germans left and those who need ammo or fuel are heading home, leaving Han, Fel, and two others to deal with the five remaining Hurricanes.

“Go back, you two,” Fel instructs the pilots from Division Five. “Vandenberg and I can handle this.” The two rookies turn back willingly, not wanting to lose their lives so early. They were fresh from the academy and had just witness their first dogfight. Han remembers his first; he wasn’t afraid back then.

“Go home, sir. I can get them away. They’re already turning back.” Ahead of them, the Hurricanes are wheeling around, some of them with holes in their wings.

“If they turn on you, you’ll be shot down in seconds. We’ll take them as far as the coast and see that they’re over the ocean, then leave them for the flak gunners,” Fel says. Han opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. He’s not a leader, giving him no say in the matter.

The two fly together, silently, a good distance behind the Hurricanes. If he wanted to, Han could fire a few warning shots, hopefully speeding up their journey. He wouldn’t be killing anybody; it would only be a few shots. He rests his thumb on the trigger, barely putting any pressure on it. He bits on the inside of his cheek, staring at the tails of the fighters ahead of him. Eventually, Han decides against it, returning to his white-knuckled grip on the control yoke. The coastline lays a couple leagues before them, fortified with a line of flak gunners, waiting to take down enemy aircraft. Closer to the coastline, parts of planes littered the countryside, some still burning despite the present wind.

“I’ll let you take it from here,” Fel says, voice startling Han. “Make sure they cross the line but don’t cross with them.” Han answers with a wave of his wings, thankful that he’s alone. He could follow them, ensure them safe passage.

There was an unspoken “rule” in war, that if you did someone a favor, they would return it when you need it most. It was a very useful strategy, one that’s been used many times by the _Luftwaffe._ Han’s been the victim of needing a favor, many times, when his plane failed during a dogfight. He had, yet, to repay the RAF. However, if Fel knew he helped five British pilots escape, he would strip Han of everything, no matter how close they were. He falls back, enough to see the enemy cross the coastline without following, then circles the area, keeping watch for any pilots that might come back.

“You doing alright, Vandenberg?” Astolfo’s voice transmits through Han’s headset. He must be in the watchtower, as he was during most of the Division’s fighter operations.

“Everything’s fine, I’ve got it under control. How are things there?” _Stupid question._

“The radar’s clear. Why don’t you turn around? If anyone’s stupid enough to come back, they’ll be dealt with.”

Han was going to answer but stopped at the sound of another engine; a Spitfire by the sound of it. The noise was strained, like it was about to fail. Han turns towards the plane. Sure enough, a few meters before him is a Spitfire, half its wing blown off and the propeller covered in a shroud of smoke. Through the cockpit canopy, Han can see the pilot, his headset and helmet off. He has thick blonde hair that sticks up in random places, bangs clinging to his forehead. He has a death grip on the yoke, drawing it towards him in a desperate attempt to keep his fighter in the air. Han brings the plane around, back to the coastline and catches up to the rapidly descending plane. Han takes a position on the right wing, out of range of his guns and letting the pilot know he won’t be hurt. The Brit glances over at the fighter next to him, eyes wide and face deathly white. Han gestures for him to relax and bring his plane’s nose down. The man gazes at him, unyielding and confused. Han doesn’t know why he feels inclined to help this man. Perhaps it has to do with returning a favor, or maybe it’s because he’s too young to lose his life in a plane crash; the pilot couldn’t be more than twenty.

Han continues to tell the man to land his plane, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, he draws the control yoke back as far is it will go. Han mouths, “it’s no good, you need to land,” but he’s ignored. Now, he’s tempted to shoot him a few more times, giving him more of a reason to land. He holds back. Anger won’t help.

Han continues, “Please, trust me.”

The man stares at Han for a while longer before, at Han’s pleading gaze, he slows his fighter down and angles his nose for a landing, the German following close behind. “Pull up, pull up,” he chants to himself when the pilot’s fighter gets too close to the ground.

Finally, the two land safely--well, as safely as a burning fighter can. Han initiates the parking brake, pops the canopy and jumps from the fighter, meeting the young pilot on the ground beside his destroyed plane. He’s doubled over, coughing and retching. Han steps closer to him, stepping back when he vomits again, seemingly bringing up everything in his body. Han grimaces, but walks to the pilot anyway, lying a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. It feels strange, helping someone like this.

The blonde leans into Han’s touch, clutching his shoulder for support as he stands straight on shaking legs. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve then steps back when he realizes who is next to him. He reaches for the pistol at his side, but doesn’t draw it, only resting his hand there as a warning.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice steady. He sounds young, like his voice never fully developed during his teenage years. He draws his gaze up and down Han’s body, hopefully checking him for weapons of his own.

“I could ask the same of you,” Han answers crossing his arms. “You do realize, I just saved your life.” Han smirks.

The man blushes but doesn’t remove his hand from the gun. “Why?”

Han shrugs. “It’s the right thing to do.”

After several seconds consideration, the pilot salutes Han--a real, proper salute; a sign of respect. “I thank you, as does the Royal Air Force.”

“I don’t need your thanks. We need to focus on getting you home.

The pilot rubs the back of his neck nervously, smiling shyly. “Yeah, not exactly a good first mission, was it?” Han laughs. The blonde meets Han’s gaze. “Don’t you Germans take us prisoner? Or do you always help pilots like me?”

“Don’t you get cocky, kid,” Han hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at the man. “I went after you on my own free will. Fighter Command had nothing to do with it.”

“Relax, it was a joke.” The pilot looks over at his fighter’s wreckage and groans. “Green is going to kill me.”

“I would. That’s a nice Spitfire, one of the best I’ve seen.” The blonde laughs, a sweet, serene sound. “How would someone get home in your situation?”

“Well, as of now, I’m kind of screwed. My radio’s shot and I doubt someone from town would take me as far as the harbor to sail home. Until someone finds me, I’m stuck here.”

Han looks back at his own plane. He’s heard stories of pilots rescuing stranded soldiers in their cargo holds. It’s a stupid idea, but if he cleaned out his storage, he might be able to take this man home. Han turns back to him. The pilot has stopped shaking and fixed his hair, which is now lying in disheveled layers. Han smiles at him. “Well, I could… take you home,” Han offers. The pilot simply stares, eyes wide with surprise. He’s silent for a few moments, then he laughs and crosses his arms.

“You’re helping me, an enemy who could kill you right now? You don’t even know my name.”

Han matches his stance, holding his head high. “Well, why don’t you tell me your name?”

“Why should I?”

Han sighs in frustration. “Look, kid. I just saved your life and you _still_ won’t trust me after I offered to take you home?”

“You’ve given me no reason to trust you.”

“I could have shot you down, but I didn’t. I didn’t draw my weapon, and now I’m offering to take you home. Now please, for _Christ’s_ sake, let me help you.” Han takes a deep breath, calming himself down. The pilot shows no emotion.

“Alright. You make a fair point.” _Damn right, I do._ “I’m Jayden ‘Skywalker’ Pendleton, leader of Eagle Squadron 153.” 

“Ah, that’s why you’re so stubborn. You’re the son of Jacob Pendleton, the original ‘Skywalker’,” Han says with a smirk.

“You knew my father?” Jayden asks, curiosity plain in his eyes.

“Everyone knows your father. He took out thirty fighters in a single mission. The man’s a legend.”

Jayden’s curious expression falters. “That’s all anyone knows him for. They don’t know him for his chivalry, or intellect… just the amount of victories.” Jayden sighs. “But, I guess that’s what war is about, isn’t it? The amount of kills you score?”

Han shakes his head, shifting his weight to his left foot. “Not exactly, kid.”

Jayden scoffs, eyes focused on the ground. “At least someone thinks differently.” He falls silent for a few moments. Then, he looks up at Han, a smile on his face. “Anyway, what about you?”

“What about me? Oh, my name.” Jayden laughs, faintly but still audible. “I’m Han Vandenberg, Captain of Flight Division 34.”

“Captain… really?” Jayden asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I thought you were a Major.”

Han whistles mockingly. “It’s rare to find an Englishman educated in German ranking.”

“It’s rare to find a German who speaks English,” Jayden counters.

“So, you going to accept my offer or are we just gonna stand here and argue?”

Jayden keeps his gaze on Han, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Han has asked him for his trust and shown that he doesn’t want to hurt him, only to help him home. “It won’t be a very comfortable ride, but it’s better than nothing.” At Jayden’s hesitance, Han adds, “I promise, I won’t do anything to you. If I wanted to, I would have a long time ago.” 

Jayden bites his lip, staring at a spot over Han’s shoulder. Finally, he says, “Okay. I’m trusting you. If you do anything, you will pay for it.”

“I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Han crosses his heart and raises his hands on mock surrender. Jayden follows him to the cargo hold, a look of regret passing over him when he sees where he’s to be kept for a good part of two hours.

“You’re keeping me… in a damn cargo hold?” Jayden slides a hand down his face, a sick sensation in his stomach.

“It’s either this or being stranded. Which do you prefer?” Han calls from the wing of his fighter. He leans into the cockpit and opens the hold. To Jayden’s relief, it’s empty.

“Definitely not this, but I’ll take it.” Jayden breathes deeply. Han sidles up beside him, laughing at Jayden’s panicked expression.

“Now, before we go, I should probably know where I’m taking you.”   
Jayden tears his gaze from the fighter, instead staring at Han. “Right er… Lin-Lincolnshire Airfield, a few miles from the East coast.” At those words, Han’s heart shatters into several pieces. _Why does this always happen to me?_ Whatever Han feels, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he just smiles.

“Of course. I should have known. Only you Lincolnshire boys would lose a fighter on your first mission.” Jayden rolls his eyes. “Get in. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

Jayden exhales sharply and claps his hand. “Do try to avoid flak gunners, yeah?” Han watches as he crawls into the tight discomfort and tucks his knees to his chest. He’s already breathing heavily and beginning to panic. Han smiles one more time before leaving the pilots to his thoughts.

“Hope you’re not claustrophobic.” Those are the last words Jayden hears before Han closes the cargo hold, trapping him beneath the fighter. Han starts the engine, laughing to himself at Jayden’s faint yelp. _This is going to be a fun flight._

 

Fel bursts through the door of the watchtower, anger flaring in his chest. “Where’s Vandenberg?” 

The operator flinches beneath his rage, eyes wide. “I… I don’t know, sir. He hasn’t reported in.”

Fel sighs in exasperation. “Have you tried making contact with him?”

“Yes, sir. He hasn’t responded.”

“Well, try again”

The operator nods hurriedly and secures a headset over her ears. “Captain Vandenberg, do you copy?” Silence. “Captain Han Vandenberg, can you hear me?”

There’s more static. Then, “I hear you, operator.”

“Are you alright?” Fel asks, leaning down to talk through the microphone. The operator hands him the headset. “We’ve been trying to make contact with you.”

“I’m sorry. I had a little… encounter. I’ll be home shortly. I had to land at another airbase to refuel and do a few repairs. Don’t worry about me, everything’s fine.”

“Which airbase did you land at?” 

Han falls silent. “I don’t remember. One near the coast. My fighter has some nasty holes in her engine.”

Fel shakes his head. “Get home soon, we’ll be waiting for you.”

“You got it, sir. I’m cutting the transmission.” The radio line fades, leaving Fel and the operator in a ringing silence. Fel sets down the headset and exits the room. Astolfo is waiting outside the door, hands in his pockets and shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, falling into step beside the Major.

“I damn hope so.”

 

The sun is beginning to set by the time Han arrives at the airbase, Jayden still curled up in the cargo hold. His legs and neck are beginning to cramp from lying in the same position. He’s extremely grateful when they land, even if it is rather rough, and Han releases him. The cracking of his joints when he stretches is satisfying and the sunset is a gorgeous sight, made even more beautiful when Jackson runs up to him and pulls him into a bone crushing embrace, clapping him on the back. _At least someone missed me._

“You’re alive!” He pulls back for a second before hugging him again, more softly this time. “My God, you’re alive.” Nobody seems to notice Han.

Jayden holds Jackson at arm’s length. “I’m lucky to _be_ alive.” They embrace again and Han smiles at the reunion. He turns back to his fighter, making to get back in the cockpit, but stops when Jayden says his name. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Han.” The German looks back, smiling faintly.

Jackson approaches Han hesitantly, a look of suspicion on his face. However, he hides whatever he’s hiding behind a smile, holding out his hand. He speaks to Han in broken German, but the basics of what he was saying were clear: “You have my gratitude, sir. You brought back our best pilot.” 

Han shakes the pilot’s hand briefly, responding in a steady voice, “It was nothing. Just something I felt I had to do.”

“He speaks English?” Jackson asks, a bright smile on his face. “Nice find, Pendleton.” Han bristles with irritation at the words.

“Why don’t you stay the night,” Jayden says, sensing Han’s anger. Jackson starts to talk, but Jayden raises a hand to silence him. “You’re going to need rest and refueling before you take off again.”

Han waves off Jayden’s offer. “I’ll be fine. I only need fuel, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Han, you saved me because it was the right thing to do. Now, I’m offering hospitality as a temporary payment and I recommend you take it.” Han considers it. He now understands how Jayden felt when asked to trust Han. He’s in enemy territory, surrounded by people who want to, and probably will, kill him. Though, it would be nice to get some sleep and it could be an opportunity.

“Alright. Though, I’ll leave early tomorrow.” Jayden nods respectfully and murmurs something to Jackson, who jogs in the opposite direction.

Jayden turns to Han. “Come with me.” Han allows himself to be lead to a building similar to the watchtower back home, except the inside is far nicer. Paintings line the walls and torches blanket the room in a warm glow. Jayden places his hands on Han’s chest, softly and gently. “Stay here for a moment.” Jayden drops his hands and knocks on a door beside the main desk, opening it at the sound of a voice. Han remains behind, hands clasped behind his back. He scans the room, acting as if he doesn’t hear the conversation.

“... Green, give him a chance. He didn’t hurt me.”

“Pendleton, you can’t expect me to just allow a German pilot--the _enemy_ pilot--to use our fuel… “

“You’re a girl,” Han murmurs to himself, shifting his body to better hear the conversation.

“I didn’t, fully, expect you to accept him. I would have thought you would be me begin to repay him for, you know, _saving my life.”_ Jayden practically hisses the last words. Han smiles at his anger.

“I understand, Pendleton. However, you must see my hesitation. I don’t know what he might do, you don’t either--”

“Please, ma’am,” Jayden begs. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Han. Please, it’s the least we could do.” They both fall silent for a few moments.

“You make a fair point, Pendleton. Bring him in, we’ll see what he’s all about.” Han pretends to admire the nearest painting when Jayden opens the door.

“Han,” he says. The pilot looks at Jayden, who motions for him to join them. “Wing Commander Green, this is Captain Han Vandenberg.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Han says, holding out his hand in greeting. Green shakes it briefly.

“Likewise, Captain Vandenberg.” Despite Green’s agreement to allow Han a place to stay, her voice was laced with contempt and fear. She turns back to Jayden. “So, would you care to explain what happened to get you in this situation?”

Jayden takes a deep breath. “I was shot on my way home, blowing half of my right wing off and causing severe damage to the engine. Captain Vandenberg helped me get home.” Han stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

“Do we know he’s trustworthy?” Green asks.

“He could have shot me down in Germany, but I’m still standing, albeit a little stiff.”

Green looks at Han, a quizzical expression on her face. “I will allow you to stay here tonight and tonight only. However, that doesn’t mean you have all of my trust. You will leave at five o’clock tomorrow, no exceptions.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Han nods appreciatively. “It means a lot to me.”

“You must know that if you show any aggression towards any of my men while you’re here, you will be sent on your way with no hesitation.”

“I can assure you, there’s no need to worry,” Jayden interrupts, nodding to Green. She dismisses them and Jayden leads Han away. “I’m afraid we may have missed dinner, but I’m sure I can convince someone to spare us something.”

“I’m fine,” Han tries to say, but his stopped by a low sound from his stomach. Not having eaten since the night before has finally caught up with him.

Jayden chuckles. “Your body says otherwise. Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, then we’ll find you some food.”

“I really appreciate this and I hate to be a burden--”

Jayden presses a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I can do. Besides, I like you.” Han blushes, hoping to God it wasn’t visible. He nods and the two leave the building.

The airfield is a lot less organized than Division 34 and a lot smaller. The tarmac is lined with buildings that would belong in certain sectors back home. Han could see a small part of a revetment, behind the nearest hangar, and a smaller building in front of it, a sliver of light shining through a window. He doesn’t bother asking Jayden what it is, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t get a response. The silence between them has grown tense and heavy, almost superstitious.

“You know, it’s a miracle you’re alive,” Han says, trying to break the quiet.

“Yeah, I guess it is. It was you who made it possible, don’t forget that,” Jayden points out.

“I’m trying to. My Division doesn’t know I’m here and if any mention of this reaches them, I’m dead.”

“Well, that’s your own fault,” Jayden giggles. It’s a nice sound, like music.

“I’ll blame it on you,” Han counters.

“I’d like to see you try.


End file.
